


melting

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Food Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always so hot in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	melting

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece of fluff was inspired by the food porn that so merrily skips across [my Tumblr dash](http://batik96.tumblr.com/) thanks to [adamngoodbatch](http://adamngoodbatch.tumblr.com/). As always, much thanks to [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen) for the awesome beta-ing and Brit-picking.

John really isn’t quite sure how he could have known, but he knows he should have known this was a possibility. Because he knows simple, ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill activities are more than capable of turning the ever-present spark in his gut into a bonfire.

All it takes is the right kindling.

And, right now, the hottest thing in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street is definitely not the stove, preheated to Gas Mark 5. And it isn’t the tray of fresh-from-the-oven biscuits John is trying to transfer to a cooling rack.

Nope.

The hottest thing in the kitchen — perhaps in all of Marylebone — is Sherlock.

Sherlock is lounging casually enough with his black-dress-trouser-clad backside against the edge of the kitchen table, skillfully avoiding John’s spatula-swats at his hands as he uses deft fingers to make a grab for a still-warm biscuit.

“Could you wait until I’m done, you git?” John’s voice has just the right level of irritation in it, but it’s also laced with affection, removing any sting his words might carry. “They’re still hot. You could burn yourself. And I need enough for the party. You can have the ones I break -- once I’m done.”

John knows he should have known his words would have no effect, and he isn’t surprised when, as soon as his spatula is safely tucked under another cookie, Sherlock snakes out graceful fingers to pluck a freshly placed cookie from the cooling rack.

John’s about to protest again when he lifts his eyes to mock-glare at Sherlock — just as Sherlock spreads his pale pink lips and sinks his teeth into the biscuit.

Whatever John is intending to say is stuttered out in a bit of a croak and dies behind his teeth as he watches Sherlock’s lips wrap around the golden brown disc. He finds himself darting out his tongue to lick his own lips as Sherlock pulls back on the larger piece of the biscuit, still-warm chocolate chips splitting under the force of enamel and movement, spilling across his lower lip as his tongue glides forward to help pull the bitten-off piece fully into his mouth.

John goes still, the tray of biscuits he’s holding all but forgotten as he locks his gaze on Sherlock’s mouth. He watches the gentle slide of Sherlock’s jaw as he chews and follows the ripple of skin and muscle and bone as Sherlock swallows, the trail of motion leading down a long, lean throat framed exotically — ridiculously so — by the simplicity of an open collar on a white cotton dress shirt.

Then there’s a moan of absolute desire, as rich and deep and pure as the chocolate in the biscuits. John can’t swear in a court of law that the sound hadn’t come from him, because his brain has gone offline, but a primal part of his brain recognizes the noise as Sherlock’s and calls back to it.

_Christ_ , John thinks, swallowing hard as he suddenly realizes his mouth is watering. _There’s nothing that can’t be made incendiary just by adding Sherlock._

John lets his eyes linger on champagne skin over sharp clavicles before lifting his chin slightly to return his gaze to Sherlock’s mouth.

John watches, mesmerized, as Sherlock simultaneously pokes at the corner of his mouth with his tongue and lifts a thumb to the same spot before using his thumb to wipe at a smudge of melted chocolate. He’s transfixed as Sherlock latches on to his thumb with his teeth, scrapes the front two across whorled skin and through the dab of chocolate, wraps his lips around the tip. And sucks.

When that thumb reappears, it is free of chocolate and John feels vague disappointment in the back of his throat at having missed his chance to lick the chocolate — lick anything — from his love.

John’s disappointment fades in the next instant as Sherlock uses his free hand to run an elegant finger across the top of a still-soft chocolate chunk in what remains of that pilfered cookie and comes away with another smear of chocolate. This time, instead of licking away the chocolate, Sherlock trails his finger down over the center peak of his upper lip and the mid-curve of his lower lip.

Sherlock reaches out to remove the tray from John’s hand — somewhere in John’s brain, he’s hazily surprised to realize he’s still holding it — and shifts his hips off the kitchen table enough to reach behind John and place the tray on the counter. John feels the heat of Sherlock’s body as Sherlock leans into him and he sways toward it — following — as Sherlock subsequently leans away.

Then Sherlock is pressing his finger against John’s lips and John is sucking it up to its base into his mouth, revelling in the way the chocolate’s straightforward flavor and silky texture provide a counterpoint to Sherlock’s complexity and the violin-roughened feel of the skin on his index finger.

John sucks at Sherlock’s finger far longer than strictly necessary to remove the chocolate, more intrigued by the familiar-but-endlessly-fascinating taste of his love than he ever could be by mere food. He uses his teeth and his lips to resist the loss as Sherlock slowly withdraws his finger, pressing it to John’s tongue along the way in a hint at a heavier, thicker, more intimate weight.

John follows as Sherlock uses his hands to claim John’s hips and pull him in to settle between strong thighs. The feel of his arousal coming in contact with Sherlock’s tugs a groan from John’s chest — a sound promptly swallowed by Sherlock as he uses his chocolate-smudged lips to claim John’s.

When there’s no longer even a hint of chocolate left on Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips, John comes up just long enough for air.

Between panting breaths, John finds a smattering of words.

“We should do this more often.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, his voice low and slightly broken. “Making out on the kitchen table?”

“Baking.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else craving fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies/biscuits now? :-)


End file.
